The lad jumped up, and slid from the bed to the floor.
"Do you hear me?" cried Miser Farebrother. "What are you doing here, you vagabond?"
That the lad was terribly frightened was clear by his movements; he shrank back and cowered at the sight of the pistol, but he managed to blurt out:
"I ain't doing no harm, your honour! I'm only having a sleep."
"How dare you sleep here?" demanded Miser Farebrother, in a tone of authority. "You have come to commit a robbery—to rob me! I'll put you in jail for it."
"Don't your honour—don't!" pleaded the lad, still cowering and shrinking. "I ain't done a morsel of harm—upon my soul I ain't! I didn't come here to steal nothink—upon my soul I didn't!"
Miser Farebrother put the pistol into his pocket, and the lad began to whimper.
"Do you know I could take your life, could lawfully take it," said Miser Farebrother, "for breaking into my house as you have done, and sleeping upon my bed?"
"Yes, your honour; but please don't! I didn't break into the house. The door was open."
"Stop that crying."